Celtic Remnants

Celtic Remnants by Deborah O'Toole is a powerful novel of enduring love
and betrayal set in the political turbulence of Ireland, glamour
of London and wilds of Scotland.

From Chapter One

January 1972

Northern Ireland

RESTING HIS
HEAD against the back of the rocking chair in the Egan living
room, Eamon closed his eyes. He swayed the chair in a slow,
steady rhythm. His face was blank, his shattered feelings
protected behind a wall of numbness. It had been two days since
the event now called Bloody Sunday, two days since he lost his
partner and friend. It seemed like years ago, but then again
felt like seconds. He had been debriefed immediately after the
riot, but because of his personal relationship with Patrick,
Chief Constable McMurty had released Eamon quickly. Since that
day he had been off-duty, secluded at home with his family and
with what remained of Patrick’s family.

Sitting across
the room from Eamon, keeping his voice quiet for the sake of the
women weeping in the next room, McMurty asked: “Tell me what you
saw, Eamon. What can you tell me that will shed light on the
matter?”

“’Twas Brit
soldiers,” Eamon said softly, stopping the motion of the rocking
chair and opening his eyes. “There were two of them at first,
and then more.”

Frowning,
McMurty leaned forward. “That’s impossible, Eamon.”

Eamon’s eyes
flashed as he looked at his commander. “Are you accusing me of
lying?”

“Perhaps you
were mistaken, confused because of the melee?” McMurty responded
carefully.

Eamon began
rocking again, turning his head away to hide his disgust. “I
know what I saw, John. I was not confused. I saw them,
heard them. There was no just cause for the shooting, and no
rationale for Patsy’s killing.” He gestured toward the kitchen.
“Listen to them. I’ve lived with that for days, trying to
understand what happened. I’ve been over and over it in my head,
and I know what I saw.”

“I’m trying to
understand, too,” McMurty said impatiently. “Yesterday was a
terrible tragedy. Besides Patrick and his daughter, fourteen
other people were killed on Rossville Street.”

“Yes, I
heard,” Eamon said bitterly. “Of course, the British are
claiming civilians fired on the soldiers first. It’s a load of
bullshyte, and you know it.”

“The
investigation into the incident has started already,” McMurty
replied. “That’s why I need to hear your detailed version of
events. Please, Eamon.”

“I told you
what I saw,” Eamon said curtly. “Believe it or not, it’s up to
you.”

McMurty
furrowed his brow in distress. Eamon was understandably in
shock. He had just lost his best friend and partner. McMurty
knew Eamon was a loyal member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary,
ever since the day he signed on. Eamon had proven his worth over
the years, despite Seamus Egan’s vocal protests, and had become
known for his honesty and diligence on the force. McMurty
understood Eamon had silently raged an inner war about the
conflicts in Northern Ireland from the start, but he never
imagined Eamon could be turned the other way. Until now.
The bloodshed had been too close to home this time.

“Would you be
able to recognize the soldiers if you saw them?” McMurty finally
asked.

“I don’t
know,” Eamon said dully. “One of them was my age, the other one
was younger. It looked like the older one had taken off his
jacket, so I couldn’t see a name. The other soldier was behind
the older one. I didn’t get a good look at him.” Eamon gazed at
McMurty. “What’s the point in all of this? The British will
claim they were fired upon, and that will be the end of it. But
you know as well as I do that neither Megan nor Patrick O’Casey
fired any first shots. We’re talking about Meggie, for God’s
sake. How plausible is that? A seventeen-year-old girl carrying
a weapon and her hair barrette?”

“Was Meggie
involved in any shenanigans that you knew of?” McMurty pressed.

Eamon was
incredulous. “Are you daft, man? You knew Meggie, for chrissakes.
What do you think?”

McMurty
reddened. “I have to explore all of the possibilities, Eamon.
You understand, don’t you?”

Eamon stared
at McMurty, disbelieving. The man was up to something; all of
his talk was leading somewhere. Eamon demanded: “Are you laying
the groundwork for a cover up?” He leaned forward from the
rocking chair, his expression full of building rage. “Tell me,
John, are you being told to steer the investigation toward the
truth, or to what the British military wants you to find? Have
you sold out? Just what the hell are you hiding?”

“Eamon, be
serious,” McMurty blurted angrily. “You know better than that,
man. Jaysus, I realize you’re grieving, but please don’t be
shooting your mouth off like that. Someone is apt to hear you
and think the same thing.”

“From the way
I see it, what harm could it do? Especially if I speak the
truth?”

McMurty stood,
his face red with anger. “I won’t listen to this,” he snapped.
“I’ll come back when you’ve come to your senses.”

Eamon stood to
join him. “I have all my senses, thank you. You’re avoiding
straight answers to my questions, John. Or is there more? Was
Patsy fingered by somebody? Was that the plan? Shoot a police
officer and blame it on the civilians? Give the British another
excuse to murder one of us in cold blood and get away with it?”

Silently,
McMurty turned to the front door.

Eamon watched
him. “I hope you can live with yourself, John. I hope you can
sleep tonight. If you’ve done anything that even remotely caused
Patsy’s death, you will rot in hell for it.”

McMurty
glanced back at Eamon briefly, and then walked out. He slammed
the door behind him.

* * *

TIM
O’CASEY SAT huddled on the fence between his family’s property
and the Egan’s, his jaw buried in a jacket against the bitter
wind. Winter’s cold had doused Eglinton, and drizzle spit out of
the blustery gray sky. Soon the drizzle would become earnest
rain.

Ava leaned
against the fence, watching Tim carefully. They both wore their
Sunday clothes. She pulled her coat closer and brushed her hair
out of her face with a cold hand. “Let’s go inside to wait,” she
said. “I’m freezing.”

Tim shook his
head. “No, I can’t go in there. Me Ma will start crying again. I
couldn’t take it.” He peeked at Ava over his coat collar. “You
go inside. There’s no sense in both us staying out here. We have
an hour before we have to leave for the cemetery.”

“Na. I’ll stay
here with you.” She shook her head.

Tim looked at
her, blessing his good fortune for having such a friend. He
could not imagine muddling through the last few days without
her. She rarely left him alone, and was always on hand if he
needed her. Ava felt the tragedy, he could see that. She had
lost a friend in Megan, and she had thought the world of Patrick
O'Casey.

The injustice
and brutality of the afternoon on William Street was etched in
their minds forever. Tim could not accept that his father and
sister were gone. He still half-expected to look up and see
them. He knew he would never see them again, but speaking it out
loud made it fact, and he was having none of that. Still, in a
few hours he would be burying his father and sister. He had no
clue how he was going to cope, but Ava would be there for him.

Ava tried to
talk to Tim about why British soldiers shot Patrick, Megan and
the fourteen others. He listened, nodded his head, but said
nothing. Eamon had been little help. He was mired in his own
grief, barely able to explain the events to his own daughter.
Ava was hurt and angered by the neglect, but she said nothing,
not daring to push her father.

She glanced at
Tim. “Come on, Timmy. Please. Let’s go inside and have a cup of
hot tea. Your Ma is there with mine, waiting. If you get sick,
where will that leave your Ma? She needs you.”

Tim took a
deep breath and closed his eyes, then jumped down from the
fence. “All right, Ava girl,” he said resignedly. “I’ll go
inside, but only to stop you from nagging me beyond common
decency.”

Ava managed a
small, sad smile.

* * *

THE CEMETERY
IN Eglinton was behind St. Martin’s Church on the outskirts of
the village. Almost a hundred people had come to Patrick and
Megan O’Casey’s funerals, along with several uniformed members
of the RUC.

Eamon Egan
stood next to his children Cary, Ava and Sophie, while Franny
held the arm of Maud O’Casey, who was weeping. Tim stood on her
other side, trying to comfort his mother while holding in his
own grief. Members of the RUC stood nearby, heads bowed, while
Father Michael O’Doherty read from the Bible.

At the last
minute Eamon’s younger sister, Siobhan, arrived and came to
stand next to her brother beside the open graves. She wore black
and carried a single rose. Ava glanced at her aunt. Siobhan sent
back the stare and nodded slightly. Ava returned her attention
to the service, thinking what a relief it would be to talk with
Siobhan about what happened. Siobhan had solid common sense with
a passionate flair, traits enhanced by her dark red hair and
uncommon beauty. With Eamon being so withdrawn, and Franny
caring for Maud, Ava was glad Siobhan was there to help her.

When the
service was over, and the RUC had given a twenty-one-gun salute
in honor of Patrick O’Casey, the mourners began to disperse.
Most of them would be heading to the Egan cottage where Franny
had planned a small reception of gratitude to those attending
the funeral. Maud had been inconsolable in her grief, incapable
of doing it herself.

After the
service, Eamon and Siobhan lingered beside the graves. Siobhan
laid the rose on Patrick’s coffin, and then turned to her
brother. When he raised his eyes to look at her, she saw his
pain. “What was the way of it, Eamon?” she asked. “Is it true
British soldiers shot down Patsy and Meggie?”

Eamon nodded.

“What are you
going to do about it?”

“What can I
do?” he said bitterly. “Me own commander doesn’t want the
truth.”

“You need to
make sure people know the truth and to hell with your
commander.”

“You sound
like Daddy and Rory.”

“They were my
father and brother, too,” Siobhan said. “Whether you choose to
believe it or not, they did what they thought was right. I’m not
here to tread on your sergeant pride, only to remind you where
your real loyalties lie.”

“The truth?
Who will listen to the truth?”

She looked at
him and said quietly: “The IMC.”

Eamon’s eyes
widened. “Oh, yes, that’s the ticket. Run to the men who carry
on the violence I’ve been sworn to defend Derry against.”

“Defending
Derry from the British hasn’t turned out so well, has it?” she
countered.

He walked to
the edge of Patrick’s grave and looked down at the rose on the
casket. “I owe Patsy something,” he said. “I don’t want his
death, or Megan’s, to be in vain.” He ran his hand through his
dark hair. “I thought about my own family while I stood here
today, listening to the priest speak of Patsy and Meggie,
praying for their souls. That could have been my family,
Siobhan, just as easily as it was Patsy and Meggie. For all the
years of service and loyalty I’ve given to the RUC, against the
wishes of my own father, it could have been my kids,
my wife, in those graves…even me. If the roles were
reversed and Patsy was standing here instead of me, would he try
and find the truth? Would he seek revenge for my death?”

“You know he
would. Patsy may have been a member of the Royal Ulster
Constabulary, but his first loyalty was to you, Eamon. He
wouldn’t have let your death go unnoticed, or swept away by
British attempts to hide the truth.”

“And how can
the IMC help me uncover the truth?”

“You know the
organization has its own network. They will find out who
is responsible. You know they can do it, but they will also want
something in return.”

“Are you their
messenger now?” Eamon frowned.

She shook her
head. “No, I have my own life to lead, and you know it. But I
still maintain ties with Daddy’s old cronies, and they do have a
message for you.”

“What is it?”

“If you seek
the truth, they will help you. They will also help you avenge
Patsy’s death. You know how it works, you were raised by a
Republican the same as me. I’m thinking all of it goes much
deeper than a few British soldiers run amok, and the IMC thinks
so, too. Something stinks about the whole thing, and the IMC is
determined to find out what it is.”

“With or
without me?”

“That’s up to
you.”

Eamon turned
away and looked across the cemetery. He saw Franny helping Maud
into their car, the children piling into the back seat. They
would wait for him to come. Eamon realized Franny was letting
him have a private moment to deal with his grief. He rarely
expressed deep emotions to his wife, so he was surprised by her
understanding. She knew him very well, despite his inner
defenses and gruff exterior. He turned to Siobhan again. “And
what will it look like if I up and resign from the RUC? Don’t
you think fingers would point at me, that it would rouse some
sort of suspicion?”

“Of course it
would. But does it really matter now?”

He looked at
her for a long moment, hearing echoes of Seamus Egan’s voice
saying: “Place yer loyalty to yer own first, rather than the
masses.” Then he saw Patsy’s bloody dead face.

Copyright

"Celtic Remnants" may not be reproduced in whole or in part
without written permission from the author. "Celtic Remnants" is
a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or
dead is purely coincidental.